


A Broken Hallelujah

by adjovi



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-04 00:36:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17294321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adjovi/pseuds/adjovi
Summary: My submission for the Trials. After hearing that the show runners wanted to model S4 more closely after Book 3, I tried to imagine what that could look like following the events of the S3 finale.Or, more simply, how they get Eliot back.All credit goes for the most AMAZING artwork goes to @highestkingbambi, (as well as moral support and generally being an awesome human being who helped this luddite get this far)!A very special shout-out to ohmarqueliot for the incredible beta assistance, and psyced-t for the cheerleading and support along the way.





	1. Chapter One

Quentin awoke with a start, instantly regretting the decision to jerk upwards. The motion had caused the barely healed scabs on his back to pull open, sticking to the cotton of his thin t-shirt. He sucked air in through his teeth, hissing a bit in pain, while looking around in the pale blue light. A sheet had been hung over the windows, keeping the room a hazy dim. The Monster was nowhere to be found. _Shit_. He hopped off the bed a bit gingerly, calling out in the empty room. “Hey! Are you there?” He padded down the hallway of the small apartment, searching rooms as he went, but he was alone. A tiny part of him felt relief, but the much larger, more practical part of his brain supplied him with scenarios of what that Thing could be doing out in the world.

He could feel the cuts on his back were bleeding, so he should probably take care of that. He grabbed a clean shirt, as well as rummaged through the small cabinet near the bathroom, finding a first aid kit and some larger bandages. He knew these had to have been supplied by Beth. Women just seemed better when it came to self-care. Beth, pretty, petite, blonde; Brian’s Fogg-issued girlfriend. She had been the Monster’s first human to experiment on. Well, that Quentin had seen. He carefully pulled the shirt over his head, wincing a bit. He pitched it on the floor. The angle was awkward, looking over his shoulder at the angry red welts in the mirror, punishment for a recent indiscretion. Apparently, It thought Indy should have kept the Ark at the end of “Raiders”. His bad. He reached over his shoulder, trying to clean the wounds, applying Neosporin on the cuts, which just made the Band-aids slide out of place. Good as it gets. As he pulled a clean shirt on, he heard a thump from the direction of the bedroom.

As he entered, he could see It was holding something, a cat, maybe? Not a cat. It smiled widely at him. “Look! I found this!” It was very proud and delighted. “She’s pretending to be dead, but she is not!”

Quentin walked in, eyeing the opossum cautiously. “Yeah. They do that.” Somewhere he dug up a bit a trivia culled from a long ago biology class that opossum body temperatures were so low, they were all but immune to rabies. Well, thank fuck. They hadn’t survived this long to die a horrible death by rabies.

It squinted, pulling the opossum closely to Its face, scenting it. That couldn’t even remotely smell good. “Why does she do that?”

Quentin shrugged. “Uh. Protection? I think? A lot of predators—don’t like dead things.” He took another step towards It. “You know, you could let—”

It jerked the animal quickly downwards in one motion, breaking her neck with an audible crack, then tossed her body carelessly onto the floor. Quentin would have to take care of that later; the Thing had left several research projects to rot with disgusting results, instantly bored when they stopped moving. It stretched long arms upwards and yawned loudly. “I’m tired.”

Quentin sighed, running his hand through his hair. “Yeah, ok. Come on.” He slid across the bed, making room. It sat down next to him, curling into his side. It liked to be held while It slept, something Quentin had taken some getting used to. Turned out being tortured was an extremely effective motivator. Never once, though, not even for a second, had he let himself pretend this _Thing_ was actually Eliot. Ever since It restored his memories, he had teetered between grief, fear and pain, but had gradually had just became numb. He was so fucking exhausted all the time.

“Quentin.” It searched his face, and Quentin braced himself for another impossible question. This Thing had an insatiable appetite for _all_ things, knowledge included. “What is love?”

Well _fuck_. He knew better than to _not_ provide an answer of some kind, but he felt like his insides were being ripped apart even thinking on it. Maybe he wasn’t numb just quite yet. He blew out a long breath. “Well. It depends. There are different kinds of love.” He shifted a little, under the pretense of being better to see It, but really just needing the space.

It scrunched Its eyebrows in confusion. “I do not understand.”

“Well, uh. There’s familial love. Family.” His stomach churned, ice shards in his belly, but he never let himself think of this, _never_ , so the words came easily. “Love between a parent and a child, or a child and their parents. I don’t have any, but love between siblings. Brothers and sisters.”

It just blinked slowly at him, tilting Its head in that weird bird-like way that It did, and he wasn’t sure anything was getting through. But he had already learned a hard lesson that It understood far more than It let on, and underestimating It was a grave mistake.

Quentin swallowed thickly. “Then there’s platonic love. Love between friends.” He _did_ permit himself the briefest moment to think on his friends and his chest squeezed painfully, just a little bit. Once they had all remembered, they had found the two of them and tried to persuade him to leave, but he couldn’t abandon his charge. Besides, he didn’t want to risk putting them in danger. Eliot would never forgive himself if his body was used to hurt them. _If he was even still in there._

“What about TV love?” Quentin had hoped that It would be getting sleepy, but Its eyes were alert, watching.

Quentin immediately knew what It meant. “Right. Romantic love. They say ‘being in love’.” They had blown through a bunch of shows in the Thing’s thirst for learning all things human. Unsurprisingly, Its tastes were weird, able to fixate for hours on shows like “Chopped” and “Ghost Adventures”, but then using Brian’s Netflix account binged “The Office”, “Grey’s Anatomy” and “Scandal”. He guessed that’s where It had gotten a notion of what love was supposed to look like.

“What does it _feel_ like?” It was studying Quentin’s face, unblinking, and he felt pinned by the intensity, his cheeks heating of their own volition. “You are in love with Eliot, right?” He asked clinically, a detached assessment. It shrugged, an indifferent agent of the chaos It was causing inside Quentin. “Eliot is in love with you.” A mere statement of fact. Quentin just stared, mouth open. Talk of Eliot had been strictly forbidden. Early on, before he learned better, the mere mention of Eliot had led to swift and fierce retribution.

Quentin’s head felt like it was full of water, sloshing around in his ears; his heart was slamming up against his ribcage. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. “It’s like—“ his voice cracked. “Wanting to be with someone all the time. Like they make you whole in ways you didn’t realize that you weren’t.” He felt like he was made of the thinnest glass, fine and brittle, and the smallest amount of pressure would cause him to crack completely. “I don’t—emotions are hard. To describe, I mean.” He shook his head, trying to clear it, to stop from breaking into a million pieces. “You have to _feel_ it to fully understand.” He flicked his eyes towards It, afraid he had offended, but It continued to watch him placidly. He let his eyes drop to the bed, unable to handle _that face_ studying him right now.

It didn’t say anything for a long moment, and then, “Q?” Quentin flicked his eyes upwards. The Monster’s posture was completely different, eyebrows pulled together in confusion, turning Its hands over slowly as if examining them. It took a sharp breath, exhaling almost like a whimper. “Quentin?”

Quentin felt completely revolted, quickly putting distance between them, holding a hand up sharply. “No. NO. I will NOT play this game. I will _never_ play this game.”

“No, Q. No.” He reached out for him. “Please.” He reached for him again, sobbing just the once. “It’s me.”

Quentin sat there, completely frozen, mouth agape but no sound coming out, opening and closing like a fucking goldfish. He didn’t know if he should believe, that this wasn’t some new and creative trick that he would be punished for later. But the way he held himself, the way he was looking at him, his _eyes_. Quentin choked out a sound, something between a sob and a scream, falling forward into Eliot’s arms, clinging on, open mouth working against Eliot’s warm neck. “How?” He was completely crying now, snot and tears, shaking in Eliot’s arms.

“I don’t know.” Eliot was crying, too, holding on, stroking his hair lightly. He ran a careful hand down his back, mindful of the wounds there. “Are you—“

Quentin pulled back so he could look at him fully, wiping the tears from his cheeks with the back of his hand. “No. No. I’m fine.” He reached out, stroking Eliot’s cheek, wiping tears away there, too. Trying to memorize his face, _this_ face, knowing their time would be short. “Don’t worry about me.”

Eliot slowly licked his lips, his eyes shining. “That’s all I do, Q. That’s all I _can_ do. Please.” He took a deep, shaky breath. “Please, Q. I can’t—not anymore. Please.”

“Ok. Ok.” Quentin knew what he was trying to tell him. He understood everything all at once. The Monster was always watching. Now, he knew Eliot was as well. Seeing, feeling, knowing. All of it. He grabbed Eliot’s face between both hands, holding him in place. “I love you so much, Eliot. You have to know that.”

Eliot sobbed again. “Oh, God.” He was trembling under his fingers. “I love you so fucking much, Q. I can’t—”

“I know.” He pulled their foreheads together. “I know.” He was breathing hard, feeling completely useless, moments they were sharing slipping away. Eliot kept shifting his gaze over his face, trying to take all of him in at once. Quentin tilted his head back, sliding one hand around Eliot’s neck, pulling him in for a kiss. He half expected some resistance, but Eliot was completely pliant, understanding the limitations of this small liberty they were being granted, not wanting to waste a moment. They both were so desperate for one another, he felt like he wanted to climb inside Eliot’s skin, like he couldn’t get close enough. But, it was rather crowded in there at the moment. Suddenly, without warning, he was shoved backwards and cracked across the face, a backhand to his mouth. The force caused him to twist slightly, and he fell face first onto the bed, white flowers of pain blossoming behind his eyelids. He swiped at his lip with his thumb, coming back with a stripe of red.

The Thing was glaring down at him with a look of revulsion. “He wanted you with this _body_.” It was spitting the words at him. Quentin realized with belated horror that he was damn lucky the Monster was disgusted. If It had actually _liked_ it, well. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that neither he nor Eliot would have survived that. “Make it stop!” Its voice was a reedy whine, and It was shifting uncomfortably on the bed, looking down towards Its lap.

Quentin sighed, sitting back up, tonguing the rawness of his lip from the inside. He felt like he was a rubber band that had been pulled taut and let go, having to readjust, losing a bit of elasticity every time. “That will go away.”

“Make it stop.” It was trying to menace, using words as a warning.

“Uh. You really don’t want me to. Help you. I mean. It’ll, um—that would be worse.” It shifted further away from him, looking like It was going to be sick. He couldn’t even imagine what the penance for this misdeed would look like. “You can take a cold shower. That usually—“

It stood quickly from the bed, glowering down at him. “You are _not_ sleeping in here tonight. Not in this bed.” It stalked down the hall towards the small bathroom, and he heard the taps slap on. Quentin just sat there stunned for the briefest moment, a tiny bud of hope flowering at this small victory, Pyrrhic such as it was. _Fuck_. He slid off of the bed on the side, almost putting his bare foot down on a dead fucking opossum.

He carefully walked to the living room, sliding down onto the couch. He remembered agonizing over the choice in an IKEA with Beth. They had been on the verge of an argument, people pressing in on all sides with their fucking carts and their fucking wailing babies, and—they never should have gone on a Saturday. These memories were strange, not totally distant; more like a book he recently read, the particulars still clear but the nuances were fading. He closed his eyes, completely dropping his wards, shouting out with his mind as loudly as he could. _Penny!_

***

The safe house Penny had blipped them into was massive; high ceilings and lots of open space. He surmised it was a penthouse, detachedly wondering who had ponied up for such fancy digs. Julia was there, immediately pulling him into a hug. He hissed as she accidentally brushed his wounds. “Ah.” He stepped back. “I’m ok. I’m ok.” Penny and _Alice_ stood in the back, silently watching. When had Alice escaped the Library? What else had he missed?

“Oh, Q.” Julia’s face crumpled with worry and sadness, and he felt a lurch in his own chest. He knew he looked like shit; thin, drawn and bloodied. He saw this reflected in the way she looked at him. She ordered him to take off his shirt, gently helping with soft fingers. He was seated on the ottoman, she was behind him. He could feel the warmth emanating from her hands as she healed his back.

A woman came into the room, her thin face vaguely familiar, heels clipping on hardwood. She came to a stop in front of him. “Different look for you than the last time.” She sniffed in his general direction. “I’m Marina. Apparently, me and Julia were—frenemies here? I guess?” She flicked her eyes towards Julia, giving her a tight nod. “You look less Beast-y than before. More like a fucking meat sack, this go around.”

He only managed a sigh—so. She was from the other Penny’s timeline. The clock started glowing, and Margo stepped through. Apparently, she got his bunny. “Oh, holy fuck.” She rushed over, tilting up his chin, inspecting the cut on his lip. “Oh, _Q_ , what did It do to you?”

“I’m fine.” He looked steadily into her eyes.

“Right.” Margo nodded, brushing her dress as she stood and took a step back. She clearly wasn’t buying what he was selling. “Right.”

Julia, finishing with his back, came around his front, placing her hands over his lip. He could feel the sinews and fibers knitting themselves back together, the pain fading away. He smiled at her. She hesitated a moment, still unsure, and he leaned forward, pulling her into a hug. “Thank you, Jules.” She hugged him back fiercely, clinging to him, her breath hitching a little.

She finally released him, sitting back on her heels, reaching out to run a hand over his brow. “Anytime, Q.”

Margo took in a deep breath. “Quentin. A word?” Margo must have realized that she had no idea the layout of the place, spinning around a bit. Marina helpfully pointed her towards a room off the side and Quentin stood, following her silently.

***

They were in a little library, and Quentin wondered just how big this place was. Although his wounds had been healed, he was still sore and exhausted, so he basically slid onto the couch that was in the middle of the room. Margo was pacing anxiously. He felt himself growing nervous, in return.

She came to a stop in front of him, blowing out a huge breath, then closed her eyes, seeming to ready herself. He felt his belly curl in fear. “Ok. Look. I’m not—“ She stopped again, wringing her goddamn hands. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. But, I think it is time we faced facts.” She walked over, dropping next to him on the couch. She placed a comforting hand on his knee. “I met with a questing Beast. _And_ , an Old God. And they both—they _know_ this Thing, ok? Have known It for centuries. From what they said?” She shrugged, looking at him hopelessly, tears in her eyes. “Eliot’s gone, sweetheart. I’m so, so sorry.” She took a sobbing breath, rubbing a thumb over his knee. “They said there was no way he could have survived. And, you know how much he’d hate it if he knew that _Thing_ was still out there, using his body—it would be a mercy. We need to let him go.“

“He’s not gone, Margo.” Her face crumpled in disbelief, but he cut her off before she could continue. “I saw him. That Thing let me _see_ him. Eliot’s still in there.”

She shook her head, looking at his with eyes full of pity. “Oh, baby, I know that’s what you want to believe. So do I—“

He sat up straighter. “Margo. That’s why I left. _Eliot_ asked me to. I know you don’t believe me, and think it was a trick or something. But, it was him.”

“This Thing likes to play tricks, Q. They told me that, too. That It would try and convince us—“

“Margo, you have to believe me. I _know_ that he’s in there. Eliot’s still in there, terrified and hurting and—“

“Quentin.” She took his hand, cradling it in hers gently. “I know you want to—“

He pulled his hand back. “It let him out. Just for a couple of minutes, but It let him out.”

“Why? Why would it do that?” A tear slipped down her cheek.

“It wants to know things.” He stood, nervous energy propelling him to move, arms flapping about as he talked. “Like about how people work. Or when they stop. About—emotions. And I tried explaining that feelings were hard. You had to experience them. Apparently, It wanted to know. What it felt like to—“

“Love.” Her voice was full of wonder. He came to a stop abruptly.

“Yeah.”

They were cut off by Julia coming into the room. “So, um, sorry to interrupt, but, Q? Marina may have found something.” She was shifting a bit. “I wanted to warn you first. You’re not going to like it.”

***

He fucking hated it. They had all assembled in the front room again. “No way. This can’t be—I mean Jesus _Christ_! How is even this a solution?”

Marina stood, walking over and smacked the open book into his middle, his hands instinctively going up to catch it. “Look, pal. Far as we know, this is the _only_ solution. I mean, while you were out there playing martyr with your little buddy, the rest of us were—“

“Marina.” Julia warned.

Marina scoffed. “Ok, fine. But look asshat, we’ve been down a lot of roads. This is the only one that even smells like it could work, _capice_?”

“How can this be the only way?” Quentin had thought he was numb, beyond feelings, but the wave of grief that he felt at that moment almost brought him to his knees. He grabbed onto the back of a chair, gripping it so tightly that his fingers went white.

Alice strode over, anger rolling off of her in waves, which seemed to be her default setting of late. She addressed him for the first time. “I can’t believe you’d even consider this, Q. _You_ of all people. Knowing what you know—“

His anguish quickly morphed into anger, lashing out. “You think I don’t know that, Alice? You think I don’t understand essentially what we’d be doing here? You think—“

“Fuck you, Quentin.” She ran out of the room. And, he got it. _Of course_ he fucking got it.

“Q.” Julia sighed, walking over and laying a careful hand on his shoulder. “This is the only way.”

“Jules—“ His voice was breaking. “I can’t—don’t you understand-?” He broke off, looking down. He felt like the floor would open around him, swallow him whole.

She squeezed his shoulder. “Quentin. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, but we’ve been looking for months.”

He licked his lips slowly, eyeing her widely. “There are too many moving pieces, Jules. I mean, there’s no way I can figure out that spell. _You_ couldn’t even figure it out.“ He had found a book among Brian’s collection, the title standing out. Brian was a math professor, so “The Quantum Universe” wasn’t too far out of left field, just enough that Quentin had been curious. He had found the spell wedged in the spine of the book. Or, more accurately, a collection of spells, woven together somehow to create a an amalgamation. Quentin had given it to them, before; back when he was still Monster-sitting. What they had been able to figure out is that _maybe_ it could be used to create worlds. But the spell was far too advanced for any of them to attempt, even Julia. Marina’s book referenced this exact spell as an essential part of the Monster eviction plan. Which clearly couldn’t have been a coincidence.

“Obviously, someone left that spell for a reason. For _you_ to find. You can do this Q. I’m going to help you.” Julia waggled her fingers at him. “Gonna juice you up.”

Margo came around his other side. “We’re all going to help you. You aren’t in this alone.” He wasn’t surprised to see her eyes were shining with tears.

Quentin hated that he was the deciding vote. They were all waiting on him. Letting him seal Eliot’s fate. “We’re sure there’s no other way?” Julia shook her head, eyes wide with sympathy. Quentin looked over towards Margo, one last check. She rubbed a hand over his arm soothingly. In solidarity. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Ok.” He nodded once. “Ok.”


	2. Chapter 2

The bar was relatively empty for a Friday night, but it was still early and the weather had been shit. Most people had probably already settled in for Netflix and chilling. That would have been Eliot’s preference, but he had to work, so, moot point. He was vaguely in hell as someone had hijacked the jukebox and paid for an entire Owl City album. He hoped this was an ironic choice, but there were just enough bro-douches drunkenly playing darts in the corner that he doubted this was the case. The main bar itself was empty, so he definitely noticed when three people came stumbling in, two clinging to each other with obvious affection, the third reluctantly being pulled along for the ride. He gave the bar one hasty swipe with a cloth before turning his attention to them. “What can I get you?”

“A boilermaker for me, Cosmo for milady. For the super nerd?” The dude actually gave the third a noogie, receiving an eye roll in return. “Mezcal. Double. Neat.” Beefcake slapped a card against the bar, nodding at Eliot.

“Coming right up.” The mezcal would have been the easiest, but instinct had him focusing on the Cosmo first, then dropping the shot of whiskey into a beer with a dramatic flair for the second.

Fucking finally, the music changed to ABBA. Normally, he would have judged the shit out of this choice, but “Dancing Queen” was enough to encourage the woman to pull Beefcake onto the dance floor. Eliot noticed “super nerd” had pulled out a book from his messenger bag and set it on the bar. He placed the tumbler in front of him. “And, for the guy who literally wants to be anywhere else.”

The man looked up from his book, startled, and Eliot froze. The strongest sense of déjà vu rolled over him, and his mouth fell open, unbidden. The other man must have felt it, too, as his cheeks flushed slightly and his eyes went wide. The man blinked rapidly a few times as if to clear his head. “Oh. I uh—sorry. Do I—“

Eliot straightened his shoulders and shook his head a little to clear it. “Yeah. You look really familiar, too.” This wasn’t entirely uncommon—a lot of people came through this bar. But the feeling had never so strong—he felt like he _knew_ him. “That wasn’t a pick up line.” He joked, but then noticed the flush on the man’s face. He chanced a grin. “Or, maybe it was, but wasn’t intentional. I’m Eliot.”

The man sipped his drink, eyes nervously dropping to the bar then back up, shoving his hand through his hair. “Uh. Quentin. Is my name.”

God, he was delightfully awkward. Eliot nodded at his book. “What’cha reading?” He caught the title _Allegorical Fantasy_. So, he _was_ a super nerd.

“For my thesis. I’m getting my Masters in literature.”

“Ah, brains and beauty, huh?” Eliot smirked at him, pleased at the small smile the other man tried to hide before dropping his eyes back towards the bar. Just then, a group of eight people came in, and he reluctantly pushed himself off to take their orders. The place suddenly got busy, and Eliot was inordinately glad that Josh had come back from break and could help him keep up. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle, and looking up, he caught Quentin staring. Quentin immediately looked away, opening his book to what Eliot guessed was a completely random page. Eliot refocused on the woman in front of him, who was leaning in, basically yelling her order over the noise. At one point, Beefcake came back, reordering for all of them, nodding down at Quentin to indicate a refill. Eliot sauntered back over to Quentin, bottle in hand. “Top you up?”

Quentin looked up from his book, then glanced down at his drink, noticing it was almost empty. “Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

“Thank Beefcake.” Eliot slid the glass over, giving him a generous pour.

“Beef—? Oh.” He chuckled. “James.”

Eliot placed the bottle back behind the bar, then turned back. “James. James and—?”

“Julia.” Eliot winced at the way Quentin’s face seemed to soften when he mentioned her. Shit. Only one way to find out.

“So, is _she_ what brings you to this fine establishment tonight?” Quentin looked away, embarrassed, and Eliot felt his stomach sink. He threw out one last testing-the-waters question. “Or, was it James?”

Quentin scoffed. “Not James.” He blinked a few times, as if realizing something. Eliot felt a tiny spark of hope. “I mean—he’s not my type.” Well, then. But when he glanced back at him, Quentin was looking away, smiling nervously to himself. _Perhaps?_ Quentin cleared his throat, speaking softly and looking back at him. “In guys, I mean.”

 _Oh_. Eliot grinned at him, leaning in, resting his elbow across the bar. “So, what’s your type? In guys, I mean?”

Quentin fidgeted with his shirt sleeves, clearly skittish, pulling them up around his fingers. “Um. Less beefcake, I guess?”

“Hmm. Well, I can work with that.”

Quentin’s eyes went wide a bit, but he nodded, smiling that small smile again. He began speaking rapidly. “So. Um. I know this is probably a cliché, and I’ve really only see this happen in movies. Or on TV. But, um, so, is it is like a thing? That people buy their bartenders a shot? I mean, that’s probably really tacky, right? Like you probably—“

Eliot dropped a hand over Quentin’s, finding himself surprisingly delighted at his awkward ramblings. “You can buy me a shot.”

Quentin was looking at his hand over his own, and Eliot could feel the other man’s fingers flexing nervously. “Um. Ok. What do you like?”

Eliot spun around, snagging a bottle of Bulleit rye between two fingers, clinking two shot glasses together over the fingers of his other hand. When he saw Quentin shifting to reach for his wallet, he stopped him on impulse. “Put your money away. This one’s on me.”

“You can do that?’ Eliot chuckled, shoving Quentin’s glass towards him with his fingers. “I mean, of course you can do that. I just wanted to buy _you_ a shot.”

Eliot raised his shot glass, encouraging Quentin to do the same. “You can get the next one.” He winked at him, tapping their glasses together before downing his own.

Quentin stiffened when James came up from behind, clapping him on the back. “Shots! Great thinking, Q! Barkeep, I’ll take three of your finest Jamesons.” Quentin eyed Eliot apologetically, closing his eyes briefly.

Eliot gave Quentin a quick smile to let him know it was ok, before responding sardonically. “Coming right up, _bar patron_.”

James gave a little guilty chuckle. Julia came around Quentin’s other side. and Eliot saw her look sidelong at Quentin, then back at Eliot. She tilted her head in a silent question, and Quentin just shrugged, smiling a little. She playfully nudged him with her shoulder. James was completely oblivious to this entire exchange. He cleared his throat. “Sorry. I’m James.” Eliot just nodded at him, no harm, no foul, focusing on pouring the shots. James gestured towards Julia. “That’s Julia. And, I take it you’ve already met our little Q.”

Eliot nodded again. “Yep. We’ve been acquainted.” He almost said they’d had their “meet-cute”, but caught himself at the last second. He didn’t want to embarrass the poor man any further.

They slammed back their shots, and then James slung his arm around Quentin’s shoulders, crowding into his space and speaking loudly. “Come on, bud. Why don’t you join us on the dance floor? I saw some single ladies out there--”

Quentin seemed to shrink into himself, slinking down and trying to twist away. Luckily, Julia came to his rescue. She snagged James by the other arm. “Come on, Cupid. Q’s doing just fine where he is.”

James’ eyebrows shot up in confusion. “What?” But he allowed himself to be pulled away. Julia went on her tiptoes to whisper into his ear, and he looked back towards Quentin with wide eyes, walking away backwards. The man in question missed this completely, his eyes fixed pointedly on the bar, face beet red.

Eliot moved in front of him. “Well. He’s—a lot.” He grabbed the towel, swiping the bar, giving himself something to do with his hands. He glanced over at Josh, but he seemed to have things under control at the other end.

Quentin shrugged. “Yeah, sorry.” He looked up at Eliot, then went back to cradling his drink like a life raft, hunched over. “He’s—he means well.” At Eliot’s skeptical look, he continued. “No, really. He’s a great guy.”

“Julia seems pretty great, too.” He could have kicked himself. Why was he even bringing her up? _Why did he even give a shit_? This was just some rando who happened to come to his bar.

Quentin’s face got soft again and he relaxed a bit. “She is. We’ve been friends since we were kids.”

“She know how you feel about her?” Eliot couldn’t help it—he just blurted it out. This was none of his business, and not something he wanted to encourage given their earlier flirtations. But for reasons that he couldn’t begin to fathom, he _cared._

Quentin just smiled at him easily, not at all embarrassed. Another surprise. Maybe he was just relieved to be able to admit it out loud. “I’m sure she knows.” Quentin shrugged again, shoving a strand of hair that had slipped into his face behind his ear. “How could she not? We’ve never talked about it, but—come on. We all live together, so.”

Eliot’s self-preservation finally kicked in, stopping himself from giving the advice that maybe Quentin should say something; maybe she didn’t know. He decided to bring back the charm offensive, leaning casually back across the bar. “So—about that drink.“ Dammit. A bachelorette party came in, giggling loudly and vying for his attention. He tapped a finger on the bar in front of Quentin. “Don’t go anywhere.”

The girls were delightfully tipsy and shamelessly flirtatious. He quickly flipped through the menu of available options: coyly interested or flamboyant bestie. He glanced over at Quentin, who was watching him curiously, not looking away even after Eliot winked at him. Door number three then: playfully professional. “Tell you what, ladies, let me pick out the soundtrack for your party.” He ducked through the gap in the bar and headed over to the jukebox, selecting the override function and forcing down the rest of the songs in the queue. When “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” started up, he knew it was the right choice, given the enthusiastic “woos”. Each one high-fived him in turn on the way to the dance floor. He made his way over towards Quentin, leaning backwards against the bar nearest him. “I’m about to take my break. Join me outside for a smoke?”

Quentin smiled at him, toying with the lip of his glass, his eyes a bit glassy and wide. “Sure. Why not?”

As Quentin slid off his stool, Eliot yelled down the bar. “Hey, Josh? I’m taking my break.” The other man nodded in understanding, and Eliot walked to the back, leading Quentin out to the small patio. There were only a few other people back there, two sitting on the picnic table which was his preferred spot; another was leaning back against the wall, one leg up. He took out his pack, shaking out two smokes, holding one towards Quentin.

“Um. Thanks.” Eliot leaned down, flicking his lighter and cupping his hands around Quentin’s, noticing how the other man’s fingers brushed up against his own. He lit his own cigarette and blew out the smoke skywards, not that he could see any stars over the ambient city lights. He looked back down at Quentin, who seemed lost in his thoughts. “So, what’s your thesis?”

“Oh. Um.” Quentin stood a little straighter. “It’s about this World War II-era British children’s book series. I want to examine how their travels to a fantasy world was an allegory masking the trauma they were actually suffering in real life.”

“Ah, kind of like _Pan’s Labyrinth_?” Eliot couldn’t help but smile at the way Quentin’s whole face lit up.

“Yeah! But in these stories, well, the children involved were actually _real_ people. After the last book was written, they all disappeared, never to be heard from again.” He squirmed a little, his obvious excitement warring with apparent anxiety. Eliot was bewilderedly smitten. “Sorry. People usually get bored right around this point.”

Eliot grinned at him. “I’m not bored. Tell me more.” Quentin enthusiastically plunged ahead, describing the background of the stories, the true crime aspect of it all, his method for research and writing. Eliot normally would have cut in with a sarcastic quip at some point, but he was utterly enchanted by the way Quentin’s eyes shone animatedly. He was so pretty, and Eliot was reasonably certain he had no idea. “You’re fucking adorable.” He couldn’t help himself.

“I—oh.” He looked down at his feet, smiling to himself, glancing back at Eliot under his lashes. “Well. You’re ridiculously hot, so.” Quentin was twisting back and forth a little, trying to gather his courage, Eliot guessed. “Look, I’m getting pretty drunk, so I probably shouldn’t have any more. But I’d still like to buy you a drink. If you’re interested.”

Eliot dropped his cigarette onto the ground, crushing it out with his heel before picking up the butt and tossing it into the garbage can. “I’m interested. Let’s save it for next time, though.”

“Next—oh. Like a _date_?” Quentin was blushing furiously.

“Yeah. Like a date.” Eliot felt his heart speed up a bit. He hadn’t been this into someone in, well, _ever_. What was even happening?

“Yeah. Ok.” Quentin shifted nervously again. “Look, just so you know, I don’t usually, I mean. I don’t even talk to most people, let alone—“

Eliot chuckled. “Well, just so _you_ know, I don’t ever ask customers to come out with me on my break. So, it’s a night of firsts for us both.” The door opened behind him, and he saw Julia peek out, searching for Quentin. She smiled tentatively at him and he nodded back. She quickly shut the door. “Your friend was checking up on you.”

Quentin twisted around. “Jules? Yeah. She probably wondered where I went.”

“So. Lemme see your phone.” Eliot held his hand out expectantly, shaking his head fondly as Quentin hopped around, trying to fish his phone out of his tight jeans. Quentin finally got it out and unlocked it, handing it over. Eliot tapped to his contacts, adding his name and number before giving it back.

Quentin immediately texted him, and Eliot felt his phone vibrate in the pocket in the apron tied around his waist. He had sent a smiley emoji. Cheesy, but effective. Eliot immediately went to save the contact. “So, Quentin—?”

“Coldwater. Just like it sounds.” _Quentin Coldwater_. Why did the name seem so familiar to him? Everything about this felt so damn familiar. In ways he couldn’t even begin to understand.

“ _Eliot Waugh_.” Quentin’s face was illuminated by the glow of his phone, and in the way he read Eliot’s name, he could tell Quentin was confused by the familiarity as well.

Fuck it. Eliot had to know. He reached over, pulling Quentin in by the nape of his neck, brushing his lips with his own. Quentin immediately responded, opening his lips, sliding his hand around Eliot’s waist to steady himself, his other hand wrapping around Eliot’s neck. Quentin shifted his angle, deepening the kiss with a tilt of his head, sliding their tongues together. They pretty much devoured one another, basically trying to climb inside each other’s skin. He backed Quentin up against the wall, feeling like he wanted to possess him. They stopped only once they ran out of breath, foreheads resting against one another. One of the other smokers started clapping. “Holy. Fuck.”

Quentin stared up at him wide-eyed, like he couldn’t even _believe_ this had just happened. Eliot could relate. “Holy fuck.”

Just then, the door banged open, and Eliot could hear screams from back inside the bar. Adrenaline spiked through his veins as Julia came running out, frantically looking around. “Quentin! He’s looking for you! He knows your name!”

Quentin pulled away from Eliot, turning around in shock. “Who—“

A man erupted through the door, or at least Eliot _thought_ he was a man. It was hard to tell because his _face was full of fucking moths_. “Quentin Coldwater!” His voice was like a roar.

“Eliot!” Julia called to him desperately. “You have to save him! It has to be you!”

Suddenly, everything slotted into place. He understood now; knew in his bones what he needed to do. He had to use Rhinemann’s Ultra. The very spell that Julia had told him he'd fucked up in another timeline, accidentally killing Margo. His heart clenched painfully. _Margo _. He stepped in front of Quentin, his fingers automatically forming the spell, carefully weaving the battle magic he could see materializing in the air in front of him.__

____

____

“Eliot, what are you—“ Quentin’s voice sounded frantic behind him.

“I got this, Q. Just stay back.”

Eliot felt the power thrumming through him, electric; his hands forming the magic almost of their own volition. “Come on, Eliot.” He numbly registered that Julia was cheering him on. What in the actual fuck? The spell was overwhelming him; he could feel it start to flare in his chest. The Beast took a threatening step forward, but Eliot was moving faster. Suddenly, he felt the spell start to burn him from the inside; the intensity was far too great. He was a fucking fool. He wasn’t god-powered like Alice had been! He started screaming in agony as he felt the flames lick up his face. He vaguely heard Julia shout, “Now, Q!”, just before she disappeared.

***

Quentin finished the last bit of the spell, dropping back onto his heels, completely drained. He had created a translucent pocket world, effectively sealing the Monster inside. He mused that maybe he had been a tad overly critical about how _Cuba_ had turned out; apparently world-building was a bitch. He had only been able to manage a translucent cube that was just shy of 2,000 square feet; roughly the size of a two-story house. He just hoped it held. He had spent the better part of the last hour in agony, holding together the spell. He had to wait until Julia could finish, otherwise she would have been trapped as well. She had incepted Eliot _inside_ the Monster, using a spell kind of like a Scarletti’s web. Essentially, she created an alternate reality, leading Eliot towards firing Rhinemann’s Ultra. Quentin had made Julia promise she would design a nice reality. Eliot fucking deserved something _nice_ in the middle of this nightmare. “Did it work?” He glanced over at Julia, her eyes still glowing.

“Yep. Look.” She nodded towards the Monster’s prone form, which began to stir. Abruptly, It shot straight up, twisting around with a grimace. It appeared to be fighting a battle within Itself. Quentin went to dart forward, stopped by Julia’s firm grip on his arm. “Just--wait.” Her voice was calm and patient, and he tried to shove down the panic that was threatening to overwhelm him. There was no way he could lose Eliot now. This all couldn’t have been for nothing. Julia spoke again. “Give him a minute—he can do it.”

Suddenly, the Monster screamed, his neck snapping upwards, vomiting out a shimmering gold plume that immediately turned into powdery gray dust. Eliot fell to the floor, head hanging down. No one moved for a long moment. Then Eliot lifted his head, electricity crackling along his blue skin. It worked. He was a niffin. “Quentin.” Eliot smiled menacingly up at him. “You changed your hair.”


	3. Chapter 3

Margo stood and placed a hand on his arm, stopping him from burning a path into the carpet with his anxious pacing. “We’ll get him back.” Her voice was gentle. “Q, you got Alice back. We can do it again.” They had left Eliot in the pocket world in the next room, trying to regroup before figuring out their next moves. Everyone seemed to respect that Quentin and Margo needed some space.

He threw up his hands. “Margo, that situation was very different. I traveled to the Underworld to get her Shade back. Because I had a _button_ to trade with a fucking dragon. In case you haven’t noticed, that’s not exactly an option anymore. Add that to the fact that we have no magic to even power the spell to join his Shade--”

“But you have me.” He hadn’t even noticed Julia come into the room. She gave him a small smile. “I’m sure O.L.U. will grant me passage to the Underworld, and lucky us, I already know where all the Shades are kept. And, I have enough juice to power the spell. Batteries not included.” She tilted her head towards him.

Quentin felt a rush of affection towards her. “Jules, I love you for even wanting to try. And I don’t doubt for a second that you could--eventually--it’s just _a lot_. And, you’re nowhere near full strength. This could drain you.”

Julia took a deep breath. “Look, Q. I think there is something bigger at work here.” His brow scrunched in confusion. “Like how you found that pocket world spell. I think--something--is trying to help us. Something that doesn’t like the idea of the Library controlling all magic. That wanted us to kill the Monster.”

“Something? Like what? A god?” Quentin didn’t keep the derision from his voice.

Julia shrugged. “Why not?

He threw his arms out in frustration. “Because, in case you haven’t noticed, Jules, gods usually like to spend their time fucking with us. Present company excluded. But, they probably find all of this hilarious.”

“Then, what is it, then?” Margo strode over towards them, crossing her arms across her chest and fixing Quentin with a glare.

“I don’t think it’s a what, actually.” He held a hand up, letting her know he wasn’t done. “I think it’s a who. I think it’s Fogg.”

“Are you fucking serious right now, Coldwater?” Margo honest-to-gods bonked him on the forehead with the palm of her hand. “That jackass is a big part of the reason why we are in this situation to begin with.”

Quentin rubbed at his forehead. “Guys, look. I’m in no way defending that asshole, but maybe in his own fucked up way he thought he was protecting us. Or, maybe he is just the drunken bastard we all love to hate. I’ve been wrong before-- ”

He was interrupted by Alice coming in. “Quentin, can I talk to you?”

Margo snorted. “What could _you_ possibly have to say?”

Quentin sighed. “It’s--fine. We were just about done here, anyways.” He looked between Margo and Julia. “Are you sure about this, Jules?”

Julia took his hand, squeezing it the once. “Yes. We’re doing this.” She turned to leave, tilting her head at Margo, indicating she should do the same. Margo just rolled her eyes and shook her head, stomping out behind Julia.

*** 

“He’s going to hate you, Q.” Alice shifted nervously. “You have to understand—he’ll want you dead. I’m not going to sugarcoat this for you--he will take every intimate detail, any meaningful moment that you two have ever shared, and use it against you.” She paused. “You have to ask yourself if it’s worth it if he never forgives you.”

“You forgave me,” Quentin said softly. He closed his eyes and sighed. He realized that Alice was attempting to do him a kindness. Eliot would have a lifetime worth of material to throw at him, and then some. He had only known her for a couple of years.

“Did I?” Alice stared at him, and he tried to ignore the feeling of dread flooding his system. “I may have allowed for certain--feelings--to remain towards you. You would be wrong to confuse them with forgiveness.”

He stared back at her stubbornly. “I’ll take my chances.”

She blew out a long breath, studying him, not able to hide the hurt she was feeling. “You really love him, don’t you.” It was more of a statement than a question.

“I really do.” He folded his arms against his chest, regarding her resolutely.

“All the more reason, then, for you to just let him be.” She shook her head sadly. “Do you have any _idea_ how many times I’d wished you dead? That I could turn back the clock and just _be_ magic? How freeing that was?” She turned and walked away from him, putting some distance between them.

“Ok. So, you have your own dark passenger.” He shrugged. “Who doesn’t?” He sighed. “Do you have any idea how many times _I’ve_ wished me dead?”

She scoffed, rolling her eyes at him, but then somehow managed to gentle her tone a bit. “I just want you to be prepared, ok?” She wrapped her arms protectively across her middle. “I meant what I said--that despite everything--I still care about you. You’re going to get hurt.”

He felt the anxiety begin to thrum right under the surface of his skin. “I’ll take my chances. I need him, Alice. I can’t--” She took in a sharp breath, and he could see the sadness in her eyes. He knew he was hurting her right now; breaking something that he had long thought beyond repair. “I’m sorry.”

She looked as if she were going to say something else, but instead nodded once before walking quickly out of the room.

***

Eliot’s laugh was unnaturally high-pitched. Echoing. Just like he remembered with Charlie. Quentin had never really seen Alice in her niffin form—she was just the voice in his head and then a speck of light in the sky. He was startled at how _beautiful_ Elliot was, glowing and bright blue. He was reminded of the lady who first came out of the Ark in Raiders, lulling the Nazis into a state of awe. Just before their faces melted off.

“Oh, Q!”Eliot sounded positively elated.

Quentin watched him, wary, not allowing an inch. “Eliot.”

He cackled again. “Is that what you think?” He moved so quickly, just a flash of light; Quentin wasn’t able to track him. Then, he was right against the boundaries, so close that Quentin could feel his cold heat. “Eliot? Eliot’s gone.”

Quentin kept his head very still, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Oh, come on! Play with me!” Eliot zoomed around the room, right along the edges, not letting on that he knew he was trapped. “You know you want to play with me.” He stopped, settling, staring at him.

Quentin just tried to track him with his eyes.

“So--what are _you_ doing here, Quentin? Your dedication to self-flagellation is truly inspiring. You know you could’ve have a lot more fun if you let _him_ know that somewhere along the line.” Eliot giggled again, that ghastly fucking inhuman laugh, hovering slightly above the floor.

Quentin stared at a spot on the ground, but flipped his gaze back up. “You’re well aware of my self-loathing tendencies. You just never used them against me.” He didn’t reveal the real reason he was there was to provide a distraction, to buy Julia some time. Hopefully before Eliot realized that the boundaries of the pocket world could be easily breached if he tested them enough. Quentin was the obvious choice for this, as he had pointed out above the other’s protests. Eliot would have the most material to use against him. It would be the perfect diversion tactic. He hoped.

Eliot smiled broadly in a way Quentin knew he thought was salacious. “So.” He started conversationally. “Let’s just get to the heart of it, shall we?” He smiled, his perfect cerulean teeth gleaming at him. “Let’s start with Teddy.”

Quentin felt the bottom fall out of his world.

“How do you think he felt? Raising the boy that would never _really_ be _his_ son? The boy who would grow up to look like an exact replica of the man that he loved?” He twisted his features as if in pain. “Gods, it makes me sick how pathetic he was. Fuck! How he never felt _adequate_. He was so fucking tragic.”

Quentin had to work very, very hard to keep his voice neutral, to not let Eliot know he was affected. He completely failed, of course, given the wicked grin on Eliot’s face. “You seem to know an awful lot about a man you claim is dead.”

“Memories, pretty watercolor _mem…or…ries_ ”. Eliot glided around the room, watching Quentin track him. He stopped, drifting to the ground, coming as close to Quentin as the perimeter would allow, advancing menacingly. “When you’re down here with me, you’ll float, too.”

Quentin stood his ground, just out of reach. Hating himself was one thing. He’d barely survived his own depression monster during the quest. But, having his deepest failures and insecurities lobbed at him by someone he truly loved? This was a whole different level of hell.

Eliot clicked his tongue, feigning boredom. He sighed dramatically. “Eliot _knew_ he would never be enough for you. He _knew_. Not even an entire lifetime together would be enough. The second he gave you the slightest push, you went running into another woman’s arms.” He winked at him, leering in a way that made Quentin feel queasy. “I’d still fuck the life right out of you, though. Whaddya say? For old times’ sake? I may be dead, but I’m still pretty.”

The door behind them slammed open. “OK, fuckface. Enough with the trauma-inducing trip down memory lane.” Margo glanced momentarily at Quentin, scanning his face to see if he was ok. He gave her a tight nod before she turned her focus to Eliot.

“Bambi!” Eliot sounded positively elated. Quentin’s stomach dropped. Shit. “Someone even _more_ pathetic than Eliot!” He clasped his hands behind his back, pacing the perimeter like a caged lion. “So, Margo. Were you in _love_ with him? What, did you think you would _turn_ him? One day he would wake up and be all about the pussy?” He smirked at her. “For the record—I’d wouldn’t mind dipping _my_ wick in that.” He raked his eyes up and down her body.

“Shut the fuck up.” Quentin couldn’t hold back any longer, knowing he had lost when Eliot turned to grin victoriously at him.

Margo sighed resignedly. “It’s ok, Q. I got this.”

Eliot turned to face her. “Oh, do you now?”

 _Julia?_ Quentin mouthed at her while Eliot’s head was turned.

Margo shook her head slightly.

“Julia?” Fuck. “Oh! Of course! Julia!” Eliot laughed, running his tongue over his teeth. “So, Q. Be honest with me. Did you have to think of _Julia_ to get it up for Eliot? Or was it Tits McChesty that did the job?”

Margo rolled her eyes. “Please. With the amount of eyefuckery the two of you got up to when you thought no one was looking, it’s clear he had no problem getting it up for _you_.” Quentin flicked his eyes over towards her, surprised, and she gave him a tense smile before turning her attention back towards Eliot. “You’re my best friends. Half the shit you think I don’t know, I figured out a long time ago.”

“Touch with an ‘e’.” Eliot responded, cocking his head at her, impressed. He turned towards Quentin, honing in on the obviously easier target. He used his best unaffected-Eliot voice. “So, Q, Eliot heard the nastiest little rumor, from _Josh_ of all people, that the minute you went on the next quest, you boned the first girl you met.”

Quentin felt like his body was slowly being filled with cement, frozen and heavy. “That’s not--she didn’t mean anything--”

“Said literally every cheater in the history of _ever_.” Eliot made an act of studying his nails, pacing slowly away. “I mean, not that you owed _him_ anything. You literally spent a lifetime together. One in which you were _stuck_ with Eliot. For decades. So of course, the minute choice was added back into the equation--I mean, _I_ certainly don’t blame you--”

Quentin closed his eyes. Margo gave his arm another squeeze. “It wasn’t like that. And you know it. I wanted _you_ to go on the next quest with me. We had just spent an entire lifetime together and the first thing I wanted to do was go on the next quest with you--”

Eliot swiveled around to face him. “Hmm. So, if you wanted to be with him so badly, why were you going to walk away for an eternity? Nothing says ‘I love you’ like ‘See you never’.”

Quentin’s throat felt thick and his eyes were blurring. He knew he was letting Eliot win, to get under his skin, but he couldn’t help himself. He hated the way his voice was trembling. “Fuck. I was trying to save _everyone_. Bring magic back--”

Eliot clapped a few times. “Oh, and a real bang up job there, I must say.” He spread his hands wide. “And then, this moron decided to save _your_ dumbass, making a real resident evil type situation up in here. Brava. Really spectacular work.”

Margo took a step forward. “Alright, shitbird, let’s wrap this up. For a being with all the power of the entire universe, you seem to be rather fixated on tormenting a couple of measly humans.”

Eliot never broke Quentin’s gaze, undeterred. “Oh, trust I have plans once I make like Charlton Heston in _The Great Escape_. But, for now, I’m just focusing on the present.” He smiled slowly. “‘Cause, here’s the thing--all of those delicious thoughts the Monster had?” He tapped his forefinger against his temple. “Still right up here.” He crossed his arms across his chest. “Fourteen different ways.” He raised an eyebrow, inviting Quentin to respond. “Fourteen different ways It wanted to kill you, Q. Number eleven was a personal favorite. One thousand shallow cuts with a razor blade. Figured you would last about--a month? If blood transfusions were involved."

Quentin felt so fucking tired, longing to just lay down on the floor, to rest his cheek on the cool hardwood. Just then, he heard a whoosh behind them, and Eliot actually looked-- _afraid_? Quentin spun around and was plowed into by a chubby little boy with curly black hair. The boy grabbed him about the knees. “Quentin!”

“No. No fucking way.” Quentin twisted around his shoulder to see Eliot zip towards the back wall of his trap, eyes wide with terror. “I will never forgive you for this, Quentin. _Never_.”

Quentin knelt down to look at the boy, met with very familiar amber eyes. “Hi, there.” He looked up at Julia, who nodded in affirmation. He couldn’t help but reach out and brush the curls from out of the boy’s eyes. “It’s gonna be ok.”

A low keening wail was coming from Eliot now, his hands splayed against the far back wall. He twisted his head back and forth frantically, for the first time acknowledging he was trapped.

“I think it’s go time, Q.” Julia’s eyes were glowing, and she touched a hand on the nearest wall of the pocket world, causing it to shimmer. She looked at Eliot’s Shade. “You have to go in there.” She gently nudged the boy, warily watching Eliot move towards the breach. “Now, sweetheart.”

The boy nodded, squeezing Quentin’s hand once before walking into the break in the wall. It immediately sealed behind him. Eliot was zinging around the room, screeching. “I will fucking _end_ you, Coldwater.”

“Now, Q!” Quentin began chanting in Latin. Julia was fully glowing now, light pouring from her very being. The spell was working--Eliot was being drawn towards his Shade, both vibrating into one another. Finally, Julia emitted a bright pulse of light, and Eliot, fully human, collapsed to the ground. Julia collapsed a second later.

Quentin knelt to check on Julia, but Margo shooed him away. “Go. Check on him.” Quentin whispered a quick chant, undoing the pocket world spell. He rushed to Eliot’s side; he was passed out. But, he was breathing and warm and--naked. Quentin quickly shed his shirt and draped it over Eliot, covering him the best he could. Eliot’s eyes fluttered open.

“Q?” Eliot looked confused, like he had no idea how he had ended up naked on the floor.

Quentin swallowed thickly, his heart beating a rapid staccato in his chest. He had prepared roughly a million different things to say for this exact moment. All he managed was a nervous, “Hi.”


	4. Chapter 4

Eliot had felt so full for so long, like his skin was stretched to the breaking point, trying to accommodate both he and the Monster. As a niffin, his body felt powerful, coiled with anger. Now, he just felt hollow. Like someone had scooped out all the most important bits and all that was left was a hull, dry and brittle.

It had been almost a week that Eliot had been back. He had rarely left the room they had given him, the past few days a haze. Margo and Quentin had been with him at first, trying to get him to eat, but all he managed was a few sips of soup before dry heaving over the side of the bed. Quentin had been there immediately, trying to keep his hair out of his face, but Eliot couldn’t stand the naked anguish and concern on Quentin’s face. Not after--all of it. The enormity of what sat between them, what he had done. Eliot had pushed a strong arm against Quentin’s shoulder, holding him away. “Please, Q. Please.” He couldn’t meet Quentin’s eyes. “I can’t. Just--go.”

Quentin had sat there for a long moment, unmoving, before stiffly standing. “Ok.” It came out like a sob.

He hadn’t been back. Not that Eliot had been aware. The rare occasions that Eliot had ventured out of the room, it was always under the cover of darkness. When he didn’t have to face them. Most nights, he found himself stopping by Quentin’s room. Just seeing him, peaceful in sleep, Eliot could almost pretend he was ok. That Quentin had survived unscathed. In the middle of the night, this was easy to believe. But the sun always returned. Quentin finally woke during one of these visits, and seeing Eliot, sat up in the bed. They stared at each other before Quentin spoke, his voice breaking in a way that physically hurt. “Eliot.” He’d fled the room.

The others had come, bringing food and updates on the Battle Royale they were planning with the Library. He knew he should care, knew they needed his help. But, his own internal battle was occupying all the interstitial spaces in his mind. No more room at the inn.

Josh’s visits were the easiest--a steady patter of gossip that only required one word answers. Apparently, Josh and Margo had kissed, which--good for them?

All the times in between, Eliot’s mind would skip around the terrors lingering inside, like a ghastly pinball whacking around inside his skull. The Monster. Destruction, wrathful and swift. The sound of cracking bones. So much blood. Excitedly planning their deaths. Planning _Quentin’s_ death. As a break from all that, he would relive the moments he spent as a niffin. Such a short time and yet the damage he had inflicted was far worse than the Monster could have managed. This is what he saw anytime he closed his eyes. He hadn’t slept for more than an hour at a time.

Yesterday, Alice had come. She stood staring at him in the doorway for long enough for him to shift uncomfortably. She finally moved, sitting ramrod straight on the arm chair. “He’s not afraid of you. If that’s what you think.” She was staring straight ahead. Steeling herself, he realized. “He’s trying to give you space. Learn from the past.” At that, she did turn her head towards him. “It’s killing him. In case you were wondering.”

He sighed, feeling the lance of the sword. He knew she was aiming to hurt, but he deserved this. He deserved worse. He nodded. He knew that his time as a niffin was a far cry from hers, a mere moment in time by comparison. She was mourning the loss of all knowledge--his pathos was of a completely different variety.

“Look, I--” She broke off, fully looking at him, her gaze shifting to something like pity, and _that_ was more than he was prepared to handle. His breath hitched. “Learn from my mistakes. Don’t push him away.” She stood then, turning, ready to exit.

“Alice.” His voice was rough with disuse, just a mere rasp, but it was enough to stop her. She turned back. “Thank you.”

“Oh, this absolutely was not for your benefit.” She turned on her heel, stalking out.

Of course, Margo was as inevitable as the tide. Or the sun rising. Or setting. Or, some other poetic bullshit. He shouldn’t have been surprised when she broke through his veil of self-pity, sitting right next to him on the bed. Apparently, she was done with his bullshit. Thank, fuck. She reached over, clicking off the TV. He hadn’t really been watching, left it on in an attempt to drown out the constant noise. It was some Fred Astaire/Ginger Rogers vehicle; lots of running around and dancing on a cruise ship.

“So. You need to talk to him, El. You _need _him.” He was about to protest, but he was so fucking exhausted and what was the point in the face of Margo? “Look. You guys don’t have the best track records at even liking _yourselves_.” She sighed, tossing her hair behind one shoulder. “And he told me, ok? After a lot of booze and stammering, but he fucking told me. Of your big fat love story.” Her eyes softened, and he found himself unable to face that kindness, completely shattered. He turned away. ”And, I fucking get it. I mean, my God, I’m not going to even ask if you love him. You’ve loved him since his nerdy, bumbling ass stumbled onto Brakebills campus, with a shitty suit and an even shittier haircut. And yet, even then, your eyes bulged out of their sockets, all cartoon hearts and ooga horns. Everyone saw that, El.”__

He remembered precisely why he loved her so fiercely; how clearly she _saw_ him. And how she never, ever flinched away. “Bambi—“

“God, it must have been terrifying. That was what I thought at the time. To find yourself loving someone so completely, in ways you didn’t know you were capable. And, even worse, to realize that you had the capacity to accept his love in return.”

“Margo, please—“ He could fucking hear the anguish in his voice; knew she heard it, too. “Just—stop.”

“Nope.” The finality in her tone made him feel like he was breaking apart. She turned and looked at him, waiting for him to meet her eyes. He wondered when she had gotten so patient. “You’re my best friend, El. And, I am not going to let you get in the way of your own happiness.” She sighed deeply, looking down. Her chin started to wobble, and when she looked back up, her eyes were wet. “El, I—“ She broke off, hands twisting nervously in her lap. “You have to know this.” She closed her eyes briefly, taking in a breath. “I was ready to—I thought it would be a mercy, you know—“ He knew. He just wanted her to fucking stop, but knew she wouldn’t. Couldn’t. “But, he never gave up on you. _Never”_. She started crying now, shoulders shaking. He had to pull her towards him, wrapping long arms around her. He burrowed his face into her hair. “And, I’m so sorry, El—I didn’t realize. I thought—“.

“I know, Bambi. I know.” He was crying, too, never able to survive the onslaught of her emotions. He wanted to do her a kindness, to let her know how badly he _wanted_ to die, but couldn’t seem to get the words out around the lump in his throat.

She pushed back from him, arms stiff against his shoulders. “He would have taken on the Library, the fucking Multiverse, just to get you back.” She shook him a little. “He learned how to build a world for you, El. Quentin, who is a middling Magician at best, figured out how to build an entire fucking _world_ to save you.” She ducked her head, catching his eyes. “Do you get that?”

He found he couldn’t look at her. “Margo, what if—“

“You’re not going to hurt him. That Thing? That was never you, Eliot. _He_ saw that. Knows that. Even if the rest of us didn’t, he _always_ knew.” She reached over, squeezing his fingers with her hand. “He’s stronger than all that. He’s a survivor.” Squeezed again. “So are you.”

“But, I did hurt him, Margo.” He pulled his hand away. “What I said--”

“Yeah. You said a lot.” She took his hand back, holding it firmly in hers. “And, yeah. A lot of those blows landed.” She blew out a long breath. “But honey, we all have shit we keep inside. Fuck, babe.”

“I’m so sorry, Margo. I’m sorry I hurt you.” He closed his eyes.

“El, we’ve made it through worse.” He felt some of his tension unwind. Still, he needed to ask.

“But, what if _he_ doesn’t--?”

She squeezed his hand. “He will. Already has.” She shook his hand.

“Bambi--”

“Go. Take a shower.” She nudged him with her shoulder. “And, you need a haircut, tramp.” He was flooded with memories. Of Sunday afternoons at the Cottage, dancing to Otis Redding while making brunch with Margo. He fucking missed that life so much it _hurt_. It must have shown on his face, and she folded over, pulling him into a sideways hug. “Oh, honey, we’ll get there again.” He didn’t have the heart to argue, letting her live in the fantasy. She pulled back, looking him full in the face, running a thumb down his cheek. “Keep the scruff though. Looks good on you.” He was startled. For someone who used to base almost his entire personality on his outward appearance, he realized he didn’t even know what he looked like anymore. Hadn’t had the time. Didn’t seem that important; not when his whole focus had been surviving a world filled terror and fear and pain.

He clicked his tongue and took in a long breath, finally allowing himself to look at her. “Thank you, Bambi.”

“Anytime, El.” She shoved him playfully. “Go. Make yourself pretty.”

***

Eliot found Quentin in the little library, curled up on the couch with a book. He felt a pang of loss, just at the normalcy of the situation. “Hey.”

Quentin’s head snapped up, startled. “Hey.” He shifted, pulling one leg up underneath himself, laying his book to the side. “Hey, um--”

Eliot took a moment to steel himself, tilting his head to the side. “Can I join you?”

He saw Quentin swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Yeah. Sure. Of course.” He slid over, giving him some space.

Eliot sat, not too far away, but not exactly close. Not trusting himself. “Q--” He had no fucking idea what to even say. Where to even begin. Eliot couldn’t hide anymore, not behind the Monster, not behind himself. He was so fucking exposed. The silence sat between them for what seemed like a really long time. Too long. Maybe things really were broken.

Quentin always had to get to the heart of the matter, pushing him. “What you said?” Eliot could tell Quentin was trying not to cry--the way he scrunched up his brow. How he licked his lips, looking down and to the side. “Did you-- _do_ you feel that way?”

Eliot had never been able to _not_ comfort Quentin when he was wounded. Apparently, it was hardwired into his very being. This want to reach across the void. But, in the end, he knew that lies would hurt worse. “Yes.” Quentin folded into himself, pulling in the pain. Eliot spoke quickly, already attempting to heal. “But, Q, _you_ never made me feel that way. Never. This was me, my own damn insecurities. Weaponizing them how I knew it would hurt the most.” He made his voice very quiet. “I’m only human. Even after all this.”

Quentin stretched out a hand, carefully reaching for him. Gently. Eliot could feel the heat just from being this close. Quentin had always run hot. Many a morning Eliot would wake with the blankets snow-plowed against his side as Quentin had pushed them off in the night. But always, _always_ , some part of them touching. Eliot ran cold. Quentin had been so very _Quentin_ about this. He had suggested perhaps Eliot was really tall, that was why. He also explained Alice had run hot as well, and maybe-- Eliot had been frozen for so long now he wasn’t sure he could remember what actual warmth even felt like. He placed his hand into Quentin’s, fingers folding over his own automatically. Thawing the tiniest bit.

Eliot knew words were inadequate, but that was all he had left. “I’m so sorry--” Quentin cut him off by tugging on his hand, dragging Eliot towards him. He found he didn’t have the strength to resist. Quentin settled Eliot’s head against his shoulder, shifting his fingers through his hair, scraping his scalp. The touch was so intimate, so familiar. Eliot felt something shift inside of him. He began to sob, unbidden, grabbing onto Quentin’s shoulder.

He felt Quentin take in a deep breath, pulling him closer, wrapping his arms around him fully. Quentin was shaking a little as well, and apparently, Eliot did have some bits left to be broken, after all. Quentin crying in his arms left him completely destroyed. They clung to each other, so natural and ordinary; remnants of a life spent together. Quentin sniffed, sitting up a little. “Eliot. I need to tell you something. I promised myself when we got you back--” He pushed Eliot’s curls from his forehead, then swallowed slowly. “I love you.” He whispered.

Eliot nodded against Quentin. His voice sounded as shredded as he felt. “Yeah. Yes.” Eliot felt Quentin’s heart, fast, skittering in his chest. Academically, Eliot knew this was because Quentin was nervous, but he couldn’t reconcile this with how his broken brain supplied _fear_. He sat up slowly, not wanting to seem like he was running away, still hating himself for needing the distance. “I’m so tired.”

“Yeah, ok.” Quentin sighed. “Ok.” He unwound himself from Eliot, standing, leaving an eddy of warmth in his wake. He held out a hand. “Come on.”

Quentin led them to his room, which was a relief in and of itself. Eliot had spent far too much time in his own. Quentin fussed around a bit, pulling out sleep clothes that would most definitely be too short on Eliot. Quentin had started stripping on the far side of the bed, freezing when he saw Eliot staring. “Oh. Um.”

Eliot shook his head, looking down at the clothes in his arms, unable to figure out what he was supposed to do with them. Quentin must have noticed his uncertainty, and once he finished changing, came around the side of the bed. His hands were tentative, skittish. He met Eliot’s eyes, asking silent permission. Eliot nodded dumbly, utterly useless. But he allowed Quentin to undress him, stepping out of his pants.

As Quentin helped him into a faded and worn t-shirt, he suddenly needed to know if what they had was still there. Without thinking, he reached down, cupping Quentin’s face, pulling him into a kiss. Quentin sighed, immediately responding, opening to him. Eliot felt the stirring of something inside, quickly losing himself to this--desire. Need. _Hunger_. He pulled back sharply, terrified that the _want_ would swallow them both whole. Quentin blinked at him, a little thrown; sadness creeping in before he could smooth out his features. Even now trying to protect.

Quentin reached out, carefully, taking Eliot’s hand and placing it back on his own cheek. Quentin put his hand over Eliot’s. “Hey. It’s ok.” Quentin smiled at him, so _sure_ , so _true_. “It’s ok.” Eliot felt something stirring in his chest; almost foreign. It had been so long he almost didn’t recognize it. The last thing left in Pandora’s box. “We’re going to be ok.” The spark was small, just a flicker. But it was still there. He hadn’t lost everything just yet. Quentin pulled on Eliot’s hand, leading him to the bed. He helped Eliot lie down, crawling in beside him.

Eliot felt his gem heart thump, once, twice. The sharp edges crafted to protect him from the horrors he’d been forced to bear witness. It was enough; fine cracks forming on the surface as it bumped against his rib cage. The molten center forced its way through the fissures; warming his legs, down his calves, out through his toes. Down his arms, fingers, belly. Strands of hair. He’d forgotten.

He reached for Quentin, pulling him in, soft and warm. He didn’t deserve this kindness. This should not be for him. But, miraculously, it had been left for the taking. Quentin rolled to his side, tucking Eliot close, laying his head on his shoulder, one hand on his chest. Eliot surrendered, settling into the warmth.

Eliot knew the lightness was just keeping the Monster, _the memories of the Monster_ , at bay. Because It was still there, curled in a dark corner, lurking. And, he would need a boatload of therapy, and all the king’s horses and all the king’s men, likely. Probably. Maybe nowhere near enough. But now, he knew. He wasn’t alone. He never was, even if he had allowed himself to be convinced otherwise. Because Quentin was there. _Right_ there, just as he’d _always_ been. For him, with him, _because_ of him. This flawed, beautiful, broken—

Quentin flattened his hand over his chest, flexing his fingers once. “Stop thinking so loud.” His voice was slurred with sleep.

“You a psychic now, too?” Eliot figured it wasn’t completely outside the realm of possibilities.

“Shh.” Quentin soothed, blindly reaching up, touching his face. Gentle. His fingers curled around the side of his neck.

After a long while, Quentin’s breathing slowed into what seemed like sleep. “I love you, too,” Eliot whispered. Quentin’s head shifted, kissing him right above his heart. Eliot felt like he was standing in the sun.

_~fin~_

**Author's Note:**

> So, went kinda super dark with this one. I hope you enjoyed--this one hurt quite a bit. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are love! Thanks so much for reading!


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